


Left Behind

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Hanging, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: Arthur always stays behind to ensure no one gets left behind. But who will be there for him, when he gets left behind?Whumptober 2020Prompt #1 Let's Hang Out Sometime 'Hanging'Prompt #5 Where Do You Think You're Going 'Failed Escape' 'Rescue'Prompt # 7 I've Got You 'Support' 'Carrying'Prompt #26 If You Thought The Head Trauma Was Bad 'Concussion'
Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Left Behind

_Leviticus Cornwall is no joke_

He remembers Hosea saying that. Weeks ago now, far north, while they were trapped in the ice and snow, the hellhole that had been their refuge from Blackwater. It almost seemed enticing now. Almost. Cause truthfully, anything would be better than this.

Valentine had turned into a war zone.

The once quaint streets were now drowned in gunfire. A storm of bullets, raining down on them, a single wagon their only protection, one man already down. Cornwall, it seemed, had an endless supply of men. Funny, what things money could provide. How a few measly dollars was enough to convince a man to throw himself in the path of death. Each one dropping like flies, his heart hammering in his chest as he brought his gun up again.

They were holding them off for now, but Arthur knew they would be lucky to get out of this alive. Skill only got you so far when faced by overwhelming numbers. But those numbers were dwindling. Little by little. He fired off another round, watching the man fall from the balcony, turning as Dutch called for him. Without pause he hefted Strauss over his shoulder, tossing him up behind John as Dutch gave him the order.

“ _You make sure no one is following us.”_

He didn't question it. Simply pulled his gun out, crouching behind the crates that were there. He always stuck behind to ensure no one was left behind. Always took care of the stragglers, always saw to it that no one was following them. Dutch and the others sped away, dust billowing in their wake, and Arthur readied his gun.

A few more shots. A few more down. But the men, it seemed, were endless. Felt like they should have taken out the entire town by now, and yet they kept coming. Arthur wondered, briefly, just how much Cornwall had paid them. Any fool in their right mind should have turned by now, should have taken off. Their own funeral, then. 

Would be his, if he didn't get going. He fired a few more rounds, shots carefully placed, pushing free of his barricade. Over to his horse, hoisting himself up, hunched over as he moved. Trying to make himself as small as possible, to be less of a target. Hoped these fools and their aim was as poor as their survival instinct. He sped his horse, a thoroughbred, down the streets, peeling off and away from the town. Intent on leading them on a chase, losing them, then circling back around. He knew how to shake someone. Knew how to disappear. 

If only he had more time. 

One of the bastards got lucky. The pain exploding in his side, the bullet digging deep. For a moment he couldn't breathe, his body rigid. Then he was falling, hands flailing as he tried grip the reigns. But they were lost, the horse swift and untrained, frantic from the chaos, the beast simply trying to get away. He hit the ground hard, a soft moan filtering out through his lips as he struggled. Stumbling to his feet. One hand pressed against the wound, blood flowing over his fingers. The other he used to pull free his gun, ready to make his stand. 

Not fast enough.

The weight driving him back down into the dirt, the grass wet from the recent rains. A hand, pinning his face down, fingers curling in his hair. The gun pulled free from his grasp. A blow to his side, the dull throb erupting into white hot pain. Lacing through his whole body, his guts twisting, seizing, expelling as he retched. The laughter cutting through his soft whines, arms wrenched behind him, his shoulders burning. And then...darkness.

He wasn't sure how many times he had been hit. Enough, was the basic answer. His head throbbing something fierce as he blinked in the dim light as he came to. The sun was filtering in through the bars, casting long shadows within the cell. For a moment he simply lay there. Unable and unwilling to move, trying his hardest to steady his breaths, to banish that horrid ache between his temples. He tried to reach up with a hand, panic lacing through him when he found himself unable to move. His hands secured behind him.

“Looks like he's awake,” the voice calm, taunting, drawing his attention. The sheriff standing near the cell, watching him. Arthur met his gaze, eyebrows furrowed, drawing in a sharp breath. Trying to calm himself. How long had he been here? 

“You've done caused a lot of trouble, _boy_ ,” the last part said in such a way it almost made him laugh. Almost. There was hardly anything humorous about this situation.

“Ain't no ten dollars gonna get you out of this one.”

He might have said something, might have been able to dredge up a sarcastic retort. If he hadn't felt so poor. If he head didn't feel like a ripe melon, ready to burst. If it didn't feel like a hot poker had been thrust in his side. If he didn't feel like puking if dared open his mouth. 

So he simply lay there, his efforts turning towards his breaths, trying to keep them even. Trying to not upset himself in any further way than necessary. His mind racing, attempting to grab onto the last feasible thoughts he held. Trying to determine, just how long it had been. 

The others would be packing, he knew. Packing and getting ready to leave, knowing they had overstayed their welcome here. Strauss had been wounded, and would need care. Dutch would be busy working on a plan, and John?

Well...he wasn't going to hold his breath on that one. Dully he blinked open his eyes, his vision hazy as he took in his surroundings. The sheriff busy talking with his deputy. The pair having forgotten him for now, or perhaps convinced he had passed out again. He wouldn't complain. Arthur swallowed, his throat tight, a tiny piece of fear growing in his chest.

Did anyone know? 

Surely they would find out. They would be waiting for him to come. Waiting for him to pull up at camp, ask what the plan was, reassure them all that no fools had followed him back. But how soon? How long would they wait before noticing something was wrong?  


He winced, eyes closing again, as the pain resurfaced. Shit his head hurt something awful. Like he had drunk himself stupid. The way his stomach twisted, threatening to seize wanted to back up that theory. But the way his hair was matted alluded to something else. He wondered, mildly, just how bad it was. The urge to reach up, to touch the open sore, overpowering. And yet, unable to do so. The frustration mounting. 

He needed to get out of here. 

The thought a joke. A sigh escaping his lips, the footsteps far too loud for comfort. He didn't need to open his eyes to tell that the sheriff had come back. The humor evident his voice. Mocking, pleased...excited. 

“You ready for a show, cowboy?”

Asked as though he had a choice. Hands hauling him up, dragging him when he failed to stand. A new wave of pain washing over him, head hung heavily, resting against his chest as he was pulled out into the daylight. Breath sucked in far too fast and deep, his stomach threatening to lose itself again.

Somehow he managed, managed to calm his breaths, to get his feet under him, though shaky at best. Raised his head as he was marched through the streets. The bodies piled off to one side, being loaded up on a cart. Hadn't been that long, he noted. Not long enough for them to notice. The lump forming in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. 

Death, he knew, was inevitable for them all. Knew that one of these times he would not make it out alive. The fact he had done so, for more than twenty years, was remarkable. Arthur knew he had been living on borrowed time. Yet he had planned for his death to be in a flurry of gunfire, a weapon in his hand, with little time to dwell on what was happening. 

Not like this. Not gasping and kicking and struggling to breathe. Not by the grace of a noose. His heart pounding now, as he was forced up the stairs, the crowd already gathered. Nothing brought out a crowd like a hanging, after all. The rope, coarse and thick, was shoved over his head, his hat tossed to one side. Almost iconic, in the same way it had been for his pa. Memories racing back now. 

A child, all of eleven years of age, watching from the back. The sun barely up, the sky a brilliant pink, a beauty all too ironic for what was taking place. The words solemn, empty, ringing in his ears. Watching his pa fight, feet kicking out, trying to find some purchase. The rope digging into his neck, his eyes bulging, lips tinged blue. An awful sound filling the air around him until...until silence. Far louder and far worse. 

The body left hanging there until the next day when some fool took pity on it, and cut it down. Carted it away. Arthur never learned where he had been buried. Had only scampered up there, taken the hat, before scampering back into the shadows. Disappearing.

He wondered if it would be the same here. The memory fleeing as he fell. 

The panic, real, coursing through him as he couldn't breathe. The rope cutting into his skin, tearing, bruising, crushing. Legs kicking out, trying and failing to find purchase. The world around him, growing dark, shapes blurring and all reason fleeing. He tried, tried to reach up, to loosen the death grip about his neck, but his arms were still held fast behind him. In his ears, the pounding intensified, each one slower than last, each gasp failed, his eyes rolling back into his head as his struggles ceased. 

Then he found himself on the ground. Blinking, unaware as to how it had happened. Unmoving, unable to string together a single coherent thought. For a moment, he thought he might be dreaming. But no...the stench of piss and shit was invading his senses, far too pungent to be a hallucination, and he could feel the smallest of breaths moving through him. Not enough. Not what he needs to actually come to, but enough to keep him from fading completely. Eyes blinking, loosely, watching blurry shapes scatter and move slowly, as though they were struggling through molasses. There were sounds too, sounds he couldn't distinguish, ringing mutely in his ears. 

Then there was a hand on his back, something cold falling against his neck, the movements rough and uncoordinated. Suddenly the pressure disappeared, and he found himself drawing in a strangled gasp, a mournful groan fleeing his lips as he choked. The hand was still on his back, the other pulling free the rope that had held him captive. The voice, close and distinct in his ear. 

“Come on Arthur, breathe.”

Almost a plead. Almost a prayer. The knife severing his bound hands, freeing him completely. His shoulders screaming as the pressure was eased. He found himself rolled to one side, his head lolling, his strength all but gone as he coughed and retched and gasped all at once. Tears pricking at his eyes, running down his face as he choked. Arthur knew he'd gotten sick again, knew faintly that he was a mess. He couldn't even bring himself to care. His entire body was shaking, trembling to the very core.  


“That's it, just breathe, I've got you.”

_Charles..._

He tried to say the man's name. Tried to thank him, tried to let him know that he was okay. The words wouldn't come though, his throat seizing as wretched coughs took over. He heard the man scold him, warning him to not talk, reminded him instead to just _breathe_.

Hell if he wasn't trying to.

He was coming to though, a little more aware now. Reality slowly seeping back into him. His throat still burned, his head still splitting, feeling like daggers were be driven down through his eyes and into his brain. White hot flashes of pain left him a whimpering mess. Increasing when he was moved. He felt himself tossed over someone's shoulder. Charles, most likely, the thought picking at the back of his brain.

The movement, however, sends new pain coursing through him. Stealing his breath. He knew, far deep in the recesses of his brain, that they need to move. Knew they were on borrowed time. They were fools to come back for him in the first place. Arthur tried to raise his head, to see what was happening. He only managed halfway. But it was enough. Enough to see the town, enough to see the standoff happening, watching as John and Javier pushed the law back, their forms fading in the distance as they fled. 

He hoped they'd be okay. The itch, the urge to see them to safety was overpowering. Arthur would never forgive himself if something happened to them. The damn fools. But he knew there was nothing to be done about it. And the thoughts were to loose in his head. The emotions, overwhelming. The panic giving way to something new. 

Because he always stayed behind to make sure no one got left behind. He had never stopped to think about who would be there for him when he needed it. Never thought anyone would care enough. A small part of him was glad he was wrong about that. A new warmth spreading through him, his limbs growing heavy, his eyes drifting close. 

It wasn't long before darkness claimed him.

**Author's Note:**

> It always amuses me that Dutch just leaves Arthur behind to hold off an entire town. Like, okay Dutch, sure, no problem. 
> 
> Ah, but we still love him, right?


End file.
